


lay heavy as a curse

by dollylux



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Exhibitionism, First Time, Gangbang, M/M, Military Backstory, Possessive Behavior, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Frank finds out where Billy goes on Fridays.





	lay heavy as a curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



> Okay, I'm scared shitless to post this. I fell so in love with Frank and Billy (#frankenbilly), and Miss Pink and I have had so many conversations about them over the last month, come up with so many scenarios and AUs that I hardly knew where to start. So, of course I start with Billy Russo having a train run on him.
> 
> For my love. I'm not gonna write a cheesy love note this time because you know. You know. <3

**Camp Victory  
Baghdad, Iraq  
September 2007**

Despite how it seems, Billy Russo’s a quiet kid.

He’s never at the middle of any group, telling bullshit stories just to make people laugh and commanding every ounce of attention in the room. Bill’s usually off to the side, forgotten and listening, keeping thoughts to himself unless Frank’s there to hear them.

Frank always falls quiet and listens when Billy talks, could pick out the sound of his voice in a whole mess hall full of drunken Marines. So when he hears the faintest noise coming from a barrack he’s never been into and recognizes it as coming from Bill, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Sir?” Fields says beside him, four inches taller than Frank and nearly thirty pounds heavier, but there’s a tremble of apprehension in his voice. Frank glances over at him, meets his eyes head-on.

“You hear that?”

He watches Fields’ expression pinch up, sweat dripping from his shaved head and down his sand-dirty skin. It’s still well over a hundred degrees even at 1800 hours, a heat so oppressive that Frank feels his skin cooking.

“Uh--” Fields tries.

Frank turns his attention to the tent to his left, protected by a cement wall all the way around and shivering slightly in the sunbaked breeze. He blinks through the sand in his eyes and listens again. Listens for him.

It takes several beats, but there it is again: a noise from Billy. Not a word, nothing shaped or purposeful. A sound like it’s being forced out, worked out of him. Frank’s adrenaline shoots up so far so fast that he staggers in place as he spins on his heel and faces Fields, tipping his head up to meet his gaze with a dangerously blank stare.

“Who’s in there?” he asks.

Fields is sunburnt as any ginger would be out here, and the permanent shade of scarlet that drapes his freckled skin deepens, but he doesn’t look away from Frank.

“Answer me, Private!” he barks, his left hand twitching at his side, fingers jump fluttering towards his palm. The rush of blood through his ears sounds like a tidal wave, almost a reprieve. Fields blinks but doesn’t flinch.

“Just… just a bunch of the guys. You know.” Fields seems exasperated, angry that he’s having to answer for some other group of dumbasses, but Frank gives a shit since he heard his favorite dumbass among them.

“You know what’s goin’ on?”

Frank only waits another second or two for Fields to stammer around a lie before he starts off at a quick pace around the tent, searching out the zipped up flaps that make up the door. Fields rounds the same space twice as fast and blocks Frank from opening the tent up, a vein his neck jumping as he holds his hands out, keeping distance between them.

“Outta my way, Fields,” Frank warns him, his hackles up, hands clenched into loose fists at his sides. Now that he’s heard Billy through the thin vinyl-coated polyester of the tent in front of him, now that it seems, beyond all comprehension, that Bill Russo’s gotten himself into some kinda trouble he can’t get out of, Frank’s ready to burn through whatever’s between them and save his scrawny ass. He straightens up as tall as he can, his shoulders broadening with the changing posture. “That’s an order.”

Fields sighs, slouching over a little as he gives in. He steps to the side, clearing the way into the tent, muttering under his breath as Frank barrels past him, yanking the flaps apart and stepping inside.

The air in here is suffocatingly close, a trapped, damp heat with no method of escape, packed with the scent of unwashed Marines and soldiers, all of them standing shirtless and quiet in a semi circle around a single cot off to one side of the tent. It’s a stench of sweat and swamp ass and rank spunk, and before he can even register the sounds he’s hearing, he feels his face heat up.

Sex. He smells sex.

There’s a hard, packing slap of skin coming from that poor excuse for a bed, a steady grunt huffed out with each one. A quick glance through the guys tells Frank that every last one of them has their dick out, some limp, balls empty, some of them standing straight up and bobbing wet in the air, others caught in meaty fists, being worked into furious hardness.

Frank’s not an idiot. He knows a train when he sees one.

“Goddamnit, Bill,” he grits out under his breath, his eyes narrowed and sternly paternal as he looks from face to face, searching out his best friend among the other bastards waiting around for their turn. He makes a mental list of females on base while he does, wondering which one of them is desperate enough to sprawl out on a nasty, soggy cot in the middle of the desert to let a line of shitheads use her body.

He can tell the second he’s spotted. A whisper starts and spreads like fire, and in under a minute, most of the baker’s dozen are turned and staring at him, everyone from pissant Privates fresh from Quantico to--

“Master Sergeant,” Frank mutters with a deferring duck of his head, feeling chastised himself for the rage he felt boiling up inside of him, ready to unleash on the whole group of them. And it’s Master Sergeant Arroyo who’s on the bed, pumping away at the smaller body beneath him, his bulk blocking the woman from Frank’s eyes.

Arroyo raises his eyebrows.

“Problem?” he asks, his ass clenched as he digs forward and stays inside of whoever she is, one hand braced on the cot beside her head, a fall of black hair draped over his dark skin. The other guys watch Frank shake his head, all of them strangely relaxed, confident that they’re not gonna get in trouble. 

Apparently this is a regular thing.

“No, sir,” Frank replies, his face falling blank, eyes vacant. His hands are gripped tight in front of him, and he’s always wished he knew how to keep his ears from flushing bright red when he gets flustered. He holds Arroyo’s gaze until it drops away from him, dismissing him.

“Good. Either stay and have some fun, or get the hell out. Got it?”

Arroyo doesn’t wait for a reply before he starts in again, pumping away like he’s paid well for the privilege. Frank stays exactly where he is, stuck tense and conflicted as he watches Arroyo finish as violent as he got there, stabbing in fast and rough and punctuated with snarls that barely sound human. It’s battlefield noise, sounds that men make when they’re stealing lives to save their own. 

The lady’s a real trooper, because she stays prone against the bed, arms wrapped around a pillow, and lets him dump a load inside of her.

“Always good, baby,” Frank hears Arroyo say quietly, the kiss he drops to a bare shoulder quick, almost mocking. The slap on the high and tight ass makes it jiggle, and Arroyo climbs up with his slumped, uncut prick swaying between his legs. Somebody else moves in to take his place as Arroyo sidles up to Frank with a contented smirk on his face, not a stitch of self-consciousness as he tucks himself back in his fatigues and zips up. He comes to a stop in front of him, plucking a cigarette from a soft pack with his lips. The scent of tobacco fills the space between them.

“What the hell is this?” Frank asks, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, wanting to push past him and yank that poor girl off the bed, but he doesn’t know what the lines are in here, where the blurring stops and their ranks pick up again. “That some new boot you’re takin’ advantage of over there? Some lady you think you can use up and won’t get in trouble for? Or’s she some Iraqi? Bought and paid for, hmm? What, you think you can spend twenty bucks on some pisspoor single mom and that you own her just because--”

Arroyo grins. Exhales away from Frank’s face, sending the smoke up to the ceiling of the tent. A few of the guys around them do a shitty job of holding in laughs.

“Oh, Frankie,” he sighs, clamping a heavy hand down on Frank’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “To be such a hard sonofabitch, you sure are a Boy Scout sometimes.”

A few grunts and calls go up as some army kid with dark, glistening skin packs it in hard where Arroyo had just left a deposit, and a low whistle announces when the guy starts to come.

“Yeah, use that pussy,” the guy beside Frank calls out, his mouth open and slick, eyes zeroed in on the action as he beats his meat. The group surges in tighter, everybody getting closer, eager for their turn. More nasty words go up, locker room shit as the guy gets up and another one takes his place.

“Get in line,” Arroyo says against Frank’s burning ear, his voice seductively low and surprisingly convincing. “Get in there and get your dick wet. I promise that’s some top shelf ass right there. Guaranteed.”

“You make me sick.” Frank shrugs Arroyo’s hand off his shoulder with a glowering, furious curl of his lip. “Think I wanna be a part of this? I ain’t that fuckin’ desperate, thanks.”

He’s rough when he pushes through the crowd that’s reformed behind him, and he swears it’s doubled in size since he got here. He’s nearly at the exit, hand prying the flaps apart, when he hears him again.

Billy.

“Hold still,” a guy grunts, and there’s a struggle behind him before more cheers go up.

“Temple’s too big for him!” somebody laughs, causing a smatter of applause and more amused laughter as the cot starts to squeak again, steady and pulsing. 

“Just use some lube, you fuckin’ piece of shit.”

Frank stops breathing.

The pinch of pain in Billy’s voice, the tight breathy gasp of it, fills in the blanks. Maybe they don’t, but it seems like guys get out of Frank’s way this time.

Temple’s stretched out prone on top of the long, tight body beneath him on the cot, and he’s grinding in so deep that Frank can’t imagine how it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t tear. And now that he knows, now that he--

Billy makes another noise, this one like he’s being gutted, and Frank shoves his way through the last few men and ends up right beside the bed. Blood is coursing through him like a freight train, drowning out every other sound.

Rage. He feels murderous, unbridled rage.

“He loves it,” comes a voice just behind him, spoken quietly in his ear. Calm. Curtis. “It’s been goin’ on awhile, Castle. It was his idea. You know Billy don’t do nothin’ he don’t want to.”

“They’re hurting him,” Frank shoots back, his fists so tight at his sides that he feels his hands shaking, the veins bulging up his arms. “They’re--”

“Right there,” Billy gasps from the bed. Frank finally makes himself look, really look, and he’s completely ignorant of the tears burning at the backs of his eyes.

Billy’s gripping the metal bar frame of the cot, so little of him visible under the bulk of Sergeant Devin Temple, but the parts that Frank can see are tensed, arched. Offered up. The tight curl of Billy’s back pushes his ass up, knees digging into the edges of the shitty mattress, and the sound of furious, animal fucking fills the room.

“Make that bitch come, baby.” An encouraging hand falls on Temple’s neck, massaging it as Temple pumps hard into Billy’s ass. The lump in Frank’s throat doubles in size the first time he hears what a sob sounds like coming from Billy Russo’s mouth, tumbled out and lost in a government-issued pillow. It slides into Frank’s gut like a knife.

They both apparently finish, and Temple climbs up, looking euphoric as a virgin on his wedding night. He meets Frank’s eyes with a grin as he staggers by, not even bothering to tuck himself back in. 

The next several seconds are a blur of lost time, but Frank comes back into his mind and he’s standing at the foot of the bed now, staring down at the endless sprawl of Billy’s boneless body, at the hair that’s gotten so long that it’s hiding the sunburned nape of his neck. Billy’s built like he was carved by somebody who loves men’s bodies, who loves when they’re graceful and long and powerful in a way that doesn’t sacrifice softness. Billy Russo has a body worth taking time to look at.

His ass is almost shockingly small, just two tight, little boy sized handfuls that’s been slapped and gripped red and is leaking thick gobs of jizz between them, the stream of it tinted faintly pink and unending. His feet, carefully lotioned with long, fine-boned toes, are bare, hanging off the edge of the bed.

Frank would murder the entire population of the Victory Base Complex for this boy. No hesitation.

Billy writhes on the bed, tiny ass lifting high, tipped up in offer.

“Are we done?” he asks, not bothering to turn around. He sounds disappointed.

“Go on,” Curtis says, devil on his shoulder, smile in his voice. “I know you wanna. Shit. Everybody wants a piece of that, I don’t care who you are.”

Frank bites down on denials, on furious reminders that he’s straight, thank you very fucking much, that he’s a married man, at that. No need for these pathetic, frat boy parties just to empty his balls. Curtis moves to stand beside him, and he smirks when Frank meets his eyes. He has the lazy-eyed look of a man who’s already nutted.

“You’re the hardest bastard in here,” he tells Frank with a raised eyebrow, dimple flashing. They both look down between Frank’s legs, at the thick curl of his restless cock trapped in his pants.

Frank swallows. Reaches down to grip and adjust with an embarrassed clearing of his throat. It’s not the situation, the backroom brothel, the fleet of guys standing around and using a willing hole together. It’s not even that it’s a guy.

It’s that it’s Billy. _His_ Billy.

And he’d be a lying piece of shit if he said he’s never thought about it.

It’ll take years and countless times of climbing into bed with this boy, but Frank will eventually tell him that his first instinct was to kiss the arch of Billy’s left foot, right then.

He gets a knee between the thoughtless spread of Billy’s legs, and he tears his eyes away from that foot to look up at the rest of him. His hand betrays him though, thick fingers sliding along the bottom of Bill’s foot and ending at his heel, a smile touching the corner of his mouth when he feels Billy twitch and tense under his fingertips.

“You ticklin’ me?” he asks, about to lift up and turn to see who’s being a creep, but Frank joins him on the cot completely, spreading his legs on either side of Billy’s body and lowering down until he’s blanketing him, the few inches of height difference between them putting his mouth at the sweaty back of Billy’s neck.

The smell of him is so intensely familiar, so comforting, and Frank gives Billy all his weight as he pushes his arms beneath Billy’s and wraps them around his chest, callouses catching on Billy’s hard nipples before he starts to rub at them, his eyes falling closed. He’s breathing him in like a goodbye, slack-mouthed and deep.

“What, are we snugglin’?” Billy laughs, squirming around under Frank’s thick body, ass pushed up so soft against his cock. He shivers when Frank catches his nipples between his fingers and starts to pull at them, plucking them until they’re longer and raw, little tits in his hands. He rocks his hips forward and down and groans for the friction, the sound curling hot at Billy’s nape.

Billy goes completely still.

“...F-Frankie?”

Beneath the trap of his ribcage, Billy’s heart is pounding desperately in his chest, against Frank’s fingers. Frank nuzzles over to Billy’s ear, the broken, jumpy line of his nose tucking it against it. Billy’s so warm under him. So pliant.

“What, you didn’t want me to know about this? Wanted to keep this all a secret from me, Bill? Hmm?”

There’s no heat in his voice, none of the shaking violence that had been thrumming under his skin a few minutes ago. He knows there’s guys watching them, listening to this, but he stopped giving a shit about anybody not on this bed the second he climbed into it.

“That’s not--” Billy starts. Stops. He shifts under Frank again, his voice shaky.

“You want me to leave? Is that what you want? Want me to walk out and pretend I never saw this? Saw you like this?” He exhales hard, his bottom lip catching on Billy’s earlobe, hot and velvety and begging to be kissed. Sucked on. “Tell me. Tell me what you want, Billy.”

“Christ, Frank, let me fuckin’ see you,” Billy snaps, exasperated. Frank grins, lifting up onto his knees so that Billy can turn over underneath him, the cot shuddering warningly with their combined weight. Billy’s red-blotched with rough touches, and his eyes are massive, so dark Frank’s always just saw him as all pupil or with none at all, like a painted doll. But here, this close, with Billy spreading his legs to let Frank rest between them and his long hands stroking over the wings of Frank’s shoulder blades, he can see now. Sees the brown so dark, so strangely void of warmth framing Billy’s dilated pupils, all beneath long black lashes that belong on a girl, in a fantasy. 

The smell of his breath is just as familiar as the rest of him, coffee and those butterscotch candies he’s always sucking on, clicking around on his pretty white teeth. Frank’s got a hand in his hair, petting him without even realizing it.

“Tell me what you need, Bill,” Frank says again, not even realizing he’s changed the command, just a little. Billy’s hair is so soft, so thick and easy to grip. His hands are clutching at Frank’s shirt now, twisting up the fabric so he can hold tight.

“Like you ain’t always known,” Billy huffs out, too soft for it to be anything but a secret for Frank alone, too vulnerable to be followed by anything but a kiss. Frank’s vaguely aware of more cheering, of guys calling out suggestions for what Frank could be doing to Billy instead of all this romantic crap, but it’s all a faded blur of sound and color, everything out of focus but this. But him.

Billy kisses like he’s drowning, like he’s a wild thing who’s never been taught how to do this without fear, without starvation showing through. Frank’s aware of his ribs being squeezed, and he dimly realizes it’s because Billy’s got his legs wrapped tight around him, ankles digging into the small of his back.

“Hey, hey,” Frank gasps, breathless, spit webbed between their mouths, his hand spreading out on the side of Billy’s face, thumb rubbing over his red-rawed lips. He searches Billy’s wet eyes, the fondness in his own showing through anything else there. “It’s okay. I got you. It’s me. Hey, look at me. I got you.”

“Tell me again,” Billy says, quiet, shameful. He closes his eyes and bumps their foreheads together hard. It’ll leave a bruise. “Again, Frankie, say it again--”

“I’m right here.” He drops a few more kisses to Billy’s mouth, rubbing over it with possessive fingers in between tastes, dipping inside to pet at his tongue, at the imperfect skyline of his teeth. “Right here. ‘m not goin’ anywhere. Gonna give you what you need. Gonna give it to you so damn good, Bill--”

Billy attacks his mouth then, savage and sweet and with a heartbreaking burble of sound that is nothing but young, little boy lost. Frank shoves him down harder into the bed with the full force of his weight, barely even noticing that Billy’s working at his pants, yanking and shoving until they slide down his hips. The feeling of his cock being freed from his underwear nearly makes him sigh, and he gives a long, savoring suck to Billy’s tongue as they dig together hard and bare, the tip of his dick bumping at Billy’s balls. 

“Why’d you let all them in here? Why you let them use you like that?” It hurts to say, to acknowledge, and he’s haunted by the immediate past, by what he walked into the tent and saw, what he’ll never unsee now. Billy furrows beneath him, restless and powerful limbed with cheeks that flash a shade the sun can’t draw out. They push their faces together at the same time, hard enough to hurt yet again, and Frank feels like nothing more than a big cat nuzzling its mate with the way his nose drags over Billy’s jaw and the line of Billy’s edges along his cheek, his breath soft and huffed out. 

The men around them are stirring and talking more now, unsure what to do now that shit’s got so goddamn gay.

“Needed it,” Billy finally says, quietly defiant. He clutches at Frank’s arms, his knees hitched up to dig under his pits. Frank smells salt in the air between them. “There’s somethin’ in me that needs to feel what… what only a roomful of mean men can give me.”

Frank feels the growl build low, deep in the drum of his chest. It rumbles around in his throat and he closes his eyes to focus on it when Billy dips down to kiss at his neck, chasing the vibration.

“That’s not true. You hear me? You don’t gotta go runnin’ to these pricks when you need to feel somethin’. You come to _me_ , Bill. You understand? You come to me. I’m the one’s supposed to take care of you. That’s _my_ job.”

Billy’s eyes flash with some inner fire, and the smile on his face is nothing but cynical.

“Never wanted to ask that of you,” he whispers, the words hitching in his throat. His eyes are shining with tears again, something that comes and goes with such unpredictability that Frank is never prepared for it, feels gutted by it every single time.

“Ask me,” Frank tells him, pushing a hand into his hair and gathering up the thick of it at the crown, pulling hard enough to bare Billy’s throat, that he has to fight to keep hold of Frank’s eyes. 

“Take care of me, Frankie.” It’s so genuine, so pleading that Frank has to close his eyes to it, to the desperation he feels in the tremble of Billy’s body. Billy tries to kiss him, to get at his mouth, but Frank’s grip on his hair won’t let him move any closer. An aborted whimper catches in his throat. The next words are breathless. “Please. Nothin’ ever really makes it better. Not even this. Nothin’s ever made it go away, but I know you could. I know it--”

“You feel that?” He drives his hips forward and lets the thick burn of his cock dig between Billy’s ass, catching on the creamed out center of him. His asshole is burning hot and flared, used beyond what most men could ever take, but Frank’s boy’s made of tougher stuff than most. 

Billy nods, no words. His hands shove at Frank’s shirt, pushing it off and throwing it somewhere. Their dogtags clink together, tangling on Billy’s narrow chest.

“That’s goin’ inside of you,” Frank murmurs, one of his hands sliding down the side of Billy’s body, bumping over ribs and the bony knot of his hipbone to get to his thigh, the scant meat of his ass. He gives it an appreciative squeeze, bringing down a hard slap before he pulls Billy’s cheek apart from the other, finding his hole with fingers that are too big, too graceless to be touching such a sacred place.

He guides the slippery head of his cock against it, the whole thing messy and fumbling and too slick to make this easy, but Billy’s worked open enough to take Frank’s whole goddamn fist, so pushing his fat dick inside is hardly any work at all.

The journey to Billy’s core seems unending, and Frank closes his eyes and feels every inch, every catch of his swollen guts, every shiver that he forces out of Billy until his balls are smashed up against his tailbone and he’s rooted in and there’s nowhere else to go. No more of this part of him left to give. Billy’s holding him hostage now.

“Shit,” Billy finally gasps, his thighs shaking against Frank’s ribs, heels digging hard into the small of his back. Frank watches as Billy has some kind of orgasmic seizure, his scorching insides pulsing around Frank’s cock as he holds on to Frank with every bit of strength in him and shakes apart on the fat heft he’s got nestled inside of him.

“Good boy.” It’s worryingly fond, the way he gives Billy those words between kisses, but the way it makes Billy soften up, all but melting into the shaky cot, is worth feeling so exposed. He’s not the biggest guy here, doesn’t have the longest dick in this weird sex tent, but Frank knows he’s impressively thick, and besides, he knows how to work it.

Turns out they work together when they’re fucking just as good as they do everywhere else, and Frank realizes it’s no effort at all to find a rhythm with Billy, to start the slow grind inside of him and feel Billy’s body moving with him perfectly. Frank digs a forearm into the mattress beside Billy’s head and cups the back of it, cradling it from the nearly flat pillow. Hellbent black meets his regular old brown eyes, and Frank lets himself fall into the dark water comfort there as he works his hips, getting as deep in Billy as he possibly can.

Low whistles and unrepeatable smut carries on around them, and Frank can smell the ball sweat of too many guys, too fucking close. He doesn’t look away, can’t leave the snare of Billy’s gaze, but he makes himself as big as possible, stretching out long and broad so that his bulk obscures Billy from most everyone but him, his biceps framing Billy’s head as he lowers down to kiss at his pliant mouth. The only parts of Billy these assholes can see now are his bony knees and his pretty feet.

Frank reaches down to find Billy’s bare toes, his thumbs rubbing up the fine arches of his feet before he pushes at them, tucking them between his thighs and Billy’s own ass, prying him open almost awkwardly, but at least none of these pervs are getting off looking at them anymore.

“You feel me in there, Bill?” His thrusts get a little rougher, skin slapping together now instead of just dragging. The steady clink of their chains matches the sounds spilling from Billy’s mouth, the breathy, girl sweet cries that he doesn’t bother to muffle. He changes the angle of his hips, lowering his center of gravity and digging up until Billy tenses beneath him, his head moving frantically in Frank’s hands as he nods.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it,” Billy tells him, his carefully trimmed nails sliding down Frank’s spine and only stopping when he gets to his ass. Frank grunts as his ass cheeks are gripped in wide palms, by slender fingers that could take him apart without breaking a sweat, and he starts to move with the pull of Billy’s arms, getting caught up in the quick pace of his breaths, in the way his hips strain up, fucking back at Frank’s.

Billy’s got his head thrown back now that Frank’s hammering away inside of him with laser precision, his throat exposed for anyone or anything that can get close enough. Frank looks up then, vicious and animal, the edges of his vision red-tinged as he glares around at the men still watching, still waiting for a turn.

He feels the spit dripping from the sides of his mouth, feels the way his lips pull back and his teeth are bared and it’s no small satisfaction, the way they take a step back as a single entity.

“Anybody touches him again, you get your fuckin’ head ripped off. Got it?” He catches Curtis’ eyes, and the fear there disappears beneath a knowing smile. And maybe Frank’s gonna get his ass handed to him after this, talking to superior officers like he’s some tough shit, but he’s locked inside of Billy Russo right now, and there’s no thought in his head except maybe _I’ll kill them all for you_ and _you’ll never be anybody else’s, ever again._

Billy yanks on his ass, spurring him back into motion, his mouth twisted up into a bitchy scowl.

“You can piss on me later,” he says, his tight little body writhing under Frank’s, hips lifting up off the bed to work himself on Frank’s cock. “C’mon. I need it. You said you’d take care of me. You said--”

“Fuckin’ brat,” Frank gruffs, elbows digging into the mattress as he spreads his knees and puts his ass into it, clenching up tight as he starts his rut inside of Billy. A grin turns into fangs that bite into Frank’s bottom lip that turns into a kiss that breaks skin and tastes like blood, and Frank feels the moment the switch gets flipped, when he lets go of any restraint he’d been clinging to and just lays into him. He stops worrying about hurting Billy, about tearing something vital inside of him, stops worrying about leaving bruises or frightening him or if he’s gonna be able to walk tomorrow, because the sounds he’s making now are ones Frank’s never heard before, ones he didn’t know anything but dying animals made while they were being eaten alive.

He can feel Billy’s dick between them, pulsing like a heart and burning his skin as it pushes between their bellies. He reaches in and wraps a massive, dumb hand around it, swallowing it up in his paw and giving him a heartbreakingly slow tug down just as he drops an almost chaste kiss to Billy’s red mouth.

“So beautiful,” he sighs, and he closes his eyes to the sight of Billy’s glittering in the shadowed dark between their faces and the feel of him coming in his hand, all so he can focus on the way it feels when Billy shivers out around his cock. It’s the most intense thing Frank’s ever felt in his goddamn life, and he’s never felt so unworthy of anything before, never felt so sure that something was out there, watching over him. Something is giving him this.

When he comes it’s like being fed, it’s filling a hunger that threatens to swallow him whole. He floods Billy’s trembling insides and beats them up some more, leaving bruises in his wake that will take more than a couple of days to heal. The kind of violence happening between Frank and Billy’s bodies is something much more permanent. 

More of those kisses, those soul-sucking ones that make Frank hate everyone who’s touched him, anyone who’s ever had a chance to taste his mouth, who’s seen even a hint of this side of Billy Russo. 

He’s still fucking him, still driving his hips deep and straining, and it’s only when Billy cups his cheek and flashes him that lightning white, brilliant smile of his that Frank starts to calm down and stops trying to feel out every single part of Billy’s ass with his dick. The tips of his ears burn with grudging embarrassment.

“That was a honeymoon fuck,” Billy tells him, so shockingly sweet and young with how open his face is, how gentle his hands are. His smile is contagious. Frank’s face hurts with his.

“You definitely took it like a wife.” He pushes in again, feeling the hot churn of half a dozen loads that preceded his own, and he knows he shouldn’t be so turned on by the squelchy sounds of it, by the way come burbles and foams up around his dick and drips out, slow and creamy.

“Y’all are definitely already as boring as a married couple. Jesus,” Curtis gripes, one of the few left straggling behind to watch. He claps Frank on the shoulder and rubs the velvet short hair on his head, but he’s smart enough not to touch Billy.

“Fuck off,” Billy says, hugging Frank down tight against him, petulant in the way he hides his face in his sweaty neck. Frank smirks over at Curtis, letting him watch as Billy licks and kisses his throat.

“So I guess Free Pussy Fridays are over?” Curtis asks with a frown.

“Not for me,” Frank replies.


End file.
